


alright

by notdarthvader



Series: variations on a shepard hymn [2]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Destroy Ending, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notdarthvader/pseuds/notdarthvader
Summary: The first breath she takes is ash. Ash, dust, and the bitter tang of copper against the back of her throat. Her chest heaves, revolting against the burn of it, sending her crumpling to her side, coughing violently, desperately for air.There’s the strange numbness to her body, a disconnected sort of half-fuzzy realization that she might not all be there, or worse, that she is all there, it’s just under several layers of burnt skin and fused armor.That can wait.For now, she breathes.





	alright

**Author's Note:**

> God this song makes me think of these two. New to this fandom, got sucked into mass effect overnight. Title and story references Keaton Henson’s song ‘Alright’. A take on the "Shepard lives after mass effect three" because they all think she’s dead and there’s no,,, dramatic resolution? We don’t get to see how they feel when the find her alive??? I need a dramatic reveal so here u go, written at 2:30 in the morning!!!!!!!!!!

_I know the west was won this way,_

_But God forgive the heartless way we let_

_It all burn down._

* * *

 

Garrus wakes, suddenly, sharply, as the morning sun crests, sunlight spilling slow, hazy, through the blinds.

It had been just over a week since the war ended, and only a few days since the last of the memorial ceremonies was held.

And still.

The morning still is so quiet, so fragile in the pale light.

He breathes in.

Breathes out.

The sun slants through the mist outside, the cool air of the morning drifting through the cracks in the widow.

No planet had escaped entirely unscathed. Rebuilding could take years, decades even. Decades of toiling with strained resources, listening to the bureaucratic red tape sputter on about councils, and authority, and promotions, and all that other bland shit that makes his chest ache just thinking about it. Decades of work trying to help a broken galaxy.

Decades of work, spent alone.

Here, in the hush of the early morning, the steady silence, the way it rings hollow in his ears, Garrus wonders if there will ever be a chance for him to heal.

* * *

 

_I know, I know you’re off on tour,_

_Godspeed my love_

* * *

 

Just like last time, the crew just kind of… falls apart. Of course, they all have some kind of reason or another. Garrus gets called back to Palavan, Tali returns to her fleet. Joker’s reassigned again, and Liara goes back to Ilium, just as before.

He’s not even surprised that they lose touch with each other. In a sad, humorless sort of way, he’s not sure why he hoped that this time-

This time maybe things would be different.

This time he wouldn’t be so alone after the fact.

But he is.

Inevitably, he always ends up alone.

 _You should’ve know better, Vakarian_ , he thinks to himself in the quiet moments at dusk, where he sits at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in his hands. _You should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to keep anything good. Anyone that gets involved with you inevitably ends up dead._

* * *

 

_I’ll not be bored with all_

_the mess here, now_

* * *

 

There is a peace to fixing things, a satisfying ache to his muscles as he throws himself into the bulk of the heavy lifting, carrying steel, and wood, and anything else they need from him.

The others around him regard him with awe, or admiration, or respect, and he can never quite bring himself to meet their gazes.

When he sleeps, it’s dreamless.

* * *

 

_I will allow_

_my heart to get over you now,_

_let yours take a generous bow,_

_I’ll be fine._

* * *

 

He couldn’t say they were two halves of a whole.

No, no, it wasn’t quite like that. It’s wasn’t really anything like that.

It was something deeper, more profound, perhaps. Like-

Like, a rifle and a scope. Like the Normandy and EDI, like, like-

Like Shepard and Vakarian.

Not necessary for each other, not two halves of the same whole. But together?

Together, a force of nature, unstoppable. Something that sighed as it settled in as if to say _yes, this is how it should be._

Garrus breathes in.

Here he is, a rifle with no scope. A gun with no trigger.

Vakarian with no Shepard.

Of all the scenarios-

Of all the possible fucking scenarios, the one where he lives and Shepard dies was never, _never_ , the one he had considered.

* * *

 

_You’ll be alright,_

_Come and see me in the morning,_

_I’ll be in the sunrise,_

* * *

 

He thinks about her with his every waking moment, and she haunts him in his not-quite-nightmares, where he’s running, chasing desperately after the echoing sound of her laughter, bright and rich in the cool air of dawn.

He sees the fire-red burn of her hair in the sunset, as it sinks below the broken, empty plains. He sees the scarred pale of her skin in the cratered glow of the moon at night, the ripple of her armor in combat in the dark sky overhead.

He hears her voice in the rustle of the grass, the crash of the waves, the whistle of the wind, and he aches, and aches, and aches.

* * *

 

_hoping that it’s rays don’t_

_burn a hole in my eyes_

* * *

 

The first breath she takes is ash. Ash, dust, and the bitter tang of copper against the back of her throat. Her chest heaves, revolting against the burn of it, sending her crumpling to her side, coughing violently, desperately for air.

There’s the strange numbness to her body, a disconnected sort of half-fuzzy realization that she might not all be there, or worse, that she is all there, it’s just under several layers of burnt skin and fused armor.

That can wait.

For now, she breathes.

She breathes,

and breathes,

and breathes.

* * *

 

_You know me I worry,_

_could always use some pity,_

_scared to do a session_

_if it’s in the city._

* * *

 

She’s not sure how long passes, in her flickering, half-alive state, but when she comes to, the sun is setting, a bloody stain through the debris cloud, terrifying and beautiful.

She vaguely can think of a few folks who match the description.

She breathes, closes her eyes, and moves her fingers.

* * *

 

_You and I are monsters_

_we'll not find another,_

* * *

 

Her com is destroyed, because of course it is, her omni-tool wrecked in the explosion, and her suit is in shambles as it clings to her battered body.

 _Maker,_ she thinks. _Spirits, whoever the fuck is up there. You tell him. You tell Garrus I’m coming for him_.

“You-you tell him,” she rasps aloud, feeling her lungs protest loudly, her throat flayed and her tongue sticking heavy against the roof of her mouth. “Garrus,” she says, his name her word, her bond, her vow. “Garrus, you son of a bitch if you didn’t make it through this and I did, I’ll kill you myself,” she swears, her voice creaking, fracturing.

But she’s said it aloud. She’s spoken it into existence.

A promise.

She braces herself, ragged muscles tensing as she curls her fingers around the broken beams and debris around her.

Breathes in.

And pushes herself to her feet.

* * *

 

_cannot be together_

_lest we eat each other._

* * *

 

Garrus takes to watching the Palaven sky at night, the billions of stars glittering across the pitch expanse. Here, where all the cities have been burned, and all the dust has settled, there is nothing to keep the stars from winking down at them every night.

He stares at the wide abyss of the stars, and wonders if Shepard is watching him, smiling over her drink at that bar.

* * *

 

_Don’t make me leave._

* * *

 

There’s not- not really much of anything where she landed, thrown from the stars, and Shepard can feel the way her body is crumbling beneath her.

Cerberus built her with just enough tech to keep her running, and left just enough organic mess that she’s still clinging to existence.

Stubbornly taking step after stumbling step away from the cracked remains of the Crucible, she lives.

She’s on Earth. Somewhere, there will be people setting up to repair, rebuild.

She just needs to hang on until she gets to them.

* * *

 

_It’s been about a month_

_and I am eating badly,_

* * *

 

Solana brings him food regularly, and he eats, but he tastes the ash of it in his mouth.

He wonders, sometimes, if this is what it felt like to be a husk. All hollowed out, with nothing to drive you, no motive in your life.

“She wouldn’t want you like this, you know,” Solana says. There’s a stern, disapproving tilt to her mouth, and he looks away.

“I know.”

Solana watches him for a moment more, and sighs and looks at the table. “ _I_ don’t want you like this, Garrus,” she says softly, softer than maybe she’s ever been.

He breathes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I am trying.”

It’s not- It’s not really a guarantee, or a promise.

But it’s not nothing either.

It’s enough.

* * *

 

_still don’t cry,_

_but I keep meaning to._

* * *

 

 _Turians don’t cry,_ he hisses at the broken, ugly thing that stares back at him from the mirror. _Turians don’t cry, we don’t, we don’t we don’t-_

Still, his voice, his breath hitches, struggles, and his eyes burn with his weakness, with his shame.

 _Hell,_ he thinks as tears run free. _Hell. I’ve always been fucking bad at this._

* * *

 

_I hear the crowds adore you so,_

_but I’m still here, I hope you know_

_don’t talk to them about me._

* * *

 

There’s always some story being ran about Shepard, and all she gave to save them. Some bullshit nobody raving hysterical, who maybe spoke one sentence at her, trying to tell the hungering news reporters what she was like.

 _She carried dignity with her like a mantle,_ one says, stars in his eyes.

Garrus huffs.

 _She was quiet, stoic. Commanding, like a leader should be,_ says another.

Wrong. All wrong, all lies. And all the more fool he is to know it.

Shepard was an enigma of dry humor, subtle jokes that danced the line between irony and self-deprecating cruelty. She held herself with assuredness, but as a façade to maintain control. Inside, she was soft, gentle, and more genuine than anyone he’d ever met. She was honest, and spoke from her heart. Quiet to the masses, perhaps, but to those who knew her, to her crew? She was anything but, she spoke with them, acknowledged them, teased them all incessantly.

She was more human, more _real_ than maybe all of them could have ever hoped to be.

And maybe that’s why they all followed her into hell without a second’s hesitation.

* * *

 

_Obviously,_

_my wounds are open to see,_

_but don’t take them seriously._

_I’ll be fine._

* * *

 

The scars fade.

Slowly, but surely, they fade.

Just like everything but the pain, it seems.

He tacks on a smile, or at least, something that’s close to it, puts on a brave face for his sister, for his father, for everyone else, when they come around.

But.

Still he hurts.

“I’m going-“ he starts, one night over dinner. “I’m going to go back to Earth. To check in with the others.”

Solana watches him for a long while. “Will you be alright?”

“Yeah. What’s that saying about time and healing?”

Solana huffs, but there’s a bit of a smile to her features. “Just. Stay safe. It’s a bit of a journey.”

“I’ve always come back in one piece, haven’t I?”

Her smile fades, and she’s quiet for a long, long moment. “Yeah. Sure.”

She doesn’t say anything more, and he doesn’t try to make her.

* * *

 

_And you’re more than alright._

_Come and meet me in the trenches,_

_I’ll be taking cover._

_You can load the guns and I’ll hide behind the others._

* * *

 

They almost shoot her when they first see her, and she’s not even surprised.

She must look more like a husk than any of the husks ever had, all burnt and bloodied, staggering along, clutching on arm to her chest, the other pressed against the wound in her stomach.

 _Please,_ she rasps, her voice raw, cloying and weak. _Please, I need help. A medic. Please. I can’t-_

As if on cue, her legs buckle from beneath her, and the scavengers that found her are rushing forward to catch her.

* * *

 

_Always been a coward,_

_you can ask my friends_

_I hide inside for hours._

* * *

 

Earth is…

Subdued, perhaps would be a good word for it. There’s a somber quiet in the rebuilding process. There are moments of happiness, but there are so many bodies being dug from the rubble, so much devastation in the air around them. There is nothing.

Every now and then, a broken, beaten human is rushed into camp, with frantic cries for medics accompanying the rush.

And today is no different.

Garrus doesn’t even pause as commotion erupts behind him as scavengers bring in another wounded, weakened body.

* * *

 

_Always had intense eyes._

_I think I am sick, but never can be certain,_

* * *

 

“Stick with us,” one of the scavengers says, and she can hear the bustle of people around her, make out the shapes of humans and aliens. There’s a flash of blue, and her heart skips a beat, but she’s pulled into the make-shift medical ward they’ve been using before her eyes can adjust.

“Trust me,” she manages to spit out at last, through the cloying smoke in her lungs, She bares her teeth, bloody and chipped, into something too fierce to be a smile. “Trust me, I’m not going to give out yet. I’ve got a date with a turian.”

The scavenger carrying her huffs a laugh. “If that ain’t a reason to survive a whole damn war. You hang in there, just keep thinking of your turian.”

“Like that’s hard,” she mumbles, but they’re settling her onto an operating table, and there are medics crowding over her, and she’s _so tired_ , that she just kind of. Falls asleep.

* * *

 

_still call up my mother_

_hiding behind curtains._

* * *

 

When she wakes, she’s been asleep for maybe an hour, tops, and it’s stil several long hours of medics fussing over her, and bright, searing bursts of pain ( _I’m so sorry,_ the medic soothes in her ear as she stiches and sews her broken body together. _We just don’t have anesthetic at the moment, we’re getting another supply shipment in tomorrow. I’m sorry, just breathe, just breathe._ )

And so.

She breathes.

She breathes through the bright bursts of pain in her sides and the sharp stabbing of the needle moving through her flesh, and thinks of a bar in heaven, and a promise spoken through bloodstained teeth and desperation.

* * *

 

It’s only when they peel the armor from her skin and rinse the ash from her bruised bloody face that they gasp and the recognition sets in.

* * *

 

_Don’t make me go._

* * *

 

There’s a commotion from behind where Garrus is standing, one of the medics comes rushing out of their makeshift hospital, flinging the door open so fast and so loud, the crack of it reverberates through their little camp.

Silence falls.

The medic sucks in an shaking breath, and there’s hope and desperation, and _hope_ etched in the lines of his face. He catches Garrus’ eyes and then turns towards the rest of the camp.

“Someone, contact the Alliance, or the crew of the Normandy, or someone! The Hierarchy, I don’t fucking care!” he shouts, and there’s a fervent edge to his voice, and Garrus is stepping forward, about to speak when-

“ _Commander Shepard is **alive**._ ”

His legs almost give out on him. He forces himself to take a step, another, stumbling forward on shaking legs, his hands trembling.

“Garrus Vakarian, Normandy Crew,” he manages to get out and the medic looks at him with something like shock and awe. “ _Where is she_ ,” and his voice is guttural and wrecked, the deep undertones fraying, splitting clean open in time with his heart.

But the medic is already reaching for his arm and pulling him along, and Garrus runs, _runs_ after him.

* * *

 

_Don’t make me go outside._

_God knows what out there lies._

* * *

 

She’s covered in dust and ash and blood, most of it cracked and caked to her armor and skin. Her hair is matted to her scalp and her face it a veritable mess of scars and cuts and broken bruises.

But she is alive.

He must make some sort of sound, stunned and filled with the rapid wing-fast flicker of hope fluttering tight in his throat, cutting off his voice, because she startles and turns and-

Her face is a battered, and her nose is broken in at least two places, one eye swollen shut, but there is something like wild, aching relief crossing her face.

“ _Garrus,_ ” she breathes out, a hope, a prayer, a benediction on her lips and he’s moving, stumbling across the room, rasping her name in a broken noise, his hands coming up to gently cradle her face, and she’s speaking, whispering things begging, pleading, and her eyes are bright, so bright with unshed tears and her voice is choking off and she’s apologizing, one breaking sorrow after another and he-

All he can feel is relief.

He presses his lips to hers, and she falls silent, stiff for a moment, before relaxing into him. And he can feel her tears running freely, breaking across his skin, and outside the rebuilding effort trucks on, ever steady. Soon, they will need to tell the Alliance, the rest of the crew, the others, and think about the future, and he will need to contact his sister, his father, and there will be paperwork, and trials, and maybe, hopefully, after everything, there will be rings.

But for now.

For now.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the bitter tang of blood and sweat and ash, and feels the solid, drum-steady beat of her pulse beneath his skin, and the soft yield of her lips beneath his.

He breathes.

She breathes, and for now.

For now.

It’s enough.

_It’s enough._

* * *

 

_I’m hoping I don’t die_

_after you._

**Author's Note:**

> I know theres no way she could heal that fast but u know what. Its fanfic. I’m gonna write a happy ending bc fuck u bioware, and also fuck u physics and biology.
> 
> anyways thanks for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed


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